


Titania and Oberon

by arcanemoody



Category: Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (1970)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Decisions, Bad Flirting, Canon Lesbian Character, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Crew as Family, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Girl Band, Intersex Character, Lesbian Character, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Third Person Limited, Platonic Relationships, Rating May Change, Rock and Roll, Russ Meyer characters being dramatic, Teenage Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26506924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcanemoody/pseuds/arcanemoody
Summary: Most people don't know how long Roxanne's known Ronnie. The true story is stranger than any fiction.
Relationships: Casey Anderson/Roxanne, Harris/Ronnie "Z-Man" Barzell, Roxanne & Ronnie "Z-Man" Barzell, The Carrie Nations
Kudos: 4





	1. She rock to the east, she rock to the west. (1958)

Roxanne learns the truth about Ronnie when they’re “playing doctors and nurses.”

They’ve done this sort of thing a few times over nineteen years of mutual acquaintance. Always interrupted by nervous parents before it could get too far: on the couch, in the wading pool during a summer barbecue, in the church basement during the Easter luncheon with both Edith Beeles. Never in the parking lot outside the Southampton train station after midnight on a Tuesday.

But, what the hell? Roxanne just spent the last eighteen months NOT graduating from a very prestigious finishing school and she’s dead the minute they get to her house anyway.

So, she lets her best girlfriend comfort her; squeezes her tiny waist, pulls her into her lap in the back of Aunt Rachel’s Chevy while Little Richard plays on the radio.

By the time she buries her face between her “practically sisters” A-cups, they’re both a little hot and bothered. She slides her hand up her friend‘s skirt and... doesn’t quite get as far as she was expecting to. There’s a barrier, and then there’s an iron grip on her wrist.

She stares into pale eyes, stunned.

Her fingers are wet. Ronnie sounds like her, smells like her. Has a glassy wet glare just like hers in spite of there being zero genetic material in common between Aunt Rachel‘s “niece“ and Aunt Maude‘s... Aunt Maude‘s...

“Honey…What are—?“

“What I _am_ , Young Goddess,” her friend replies. “is more than you could ever guess or handle.“

“Okay,” she says, carefully; still balancing her friend on her lap. “Can I still call you, Ronnie?”

“My being is whole and unsullied!” Ronnie spits out. “I don’t need to draw the sword down and destroy it with such a ridiculous decision.”

“Solid,” she replies. “Can I still call you Ronnie?”

“You realize I can’t let you go now,” Ronnie says, tears flowing; florid even when flailing. “You know _far_ too much.”

“Swell,” she replies. “I’m done for if we go back anyhow.”

“I’ll have to keep you. _Forever._ Whatever you thought life was going to be before is over. It will never be the same!” Like it’s a threat or a warning and not the only vow she’ll ever need.

“You promise?” she grins, drawing her stunned friend back into a tight embrace.

They get ice cream instead. And a cocktail. And, together, they plot their great escape.


	2. I'm all packed up and I'm on my way and I'm gonna fall in love. (1963)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roxanne comes to him with a radical idea.

Their escape takes them to Lower Manhattan. Specifically, Chatham Street where a former paramour of Roxanne’s from Finch gets her an apprenticeship with a seamstress. Ronnie himself fast talks his way into an “assistanceship” with Shadow and Claus and all the other denizens of the new jazz and pop sound.

Whatever anyone else may think, the pronouns are not a solid commitment: Ronnie is perfect. Too perfect to cut down the middle or anywhere else. But the Brill Building has a certain “type” that they want in the mixing booth (and in the recording studio, and in the steno pool). A haircut is worth the price of admission and the reaped benefits are enough to land him and Roxanne a place that’s not a cot at the YWCA. They’d made their run for it in the dead of night, two suitcases and a guitar case between them on the train. Half of the clothes he’d packed were unusable now with cover of his new “persona.”

Roxanne, the goddess herself, just smiles and asks him to model her Edwardian revival designs of ruffled cravats and Merton velvet jackets. Often hand-delivered to the studio, occasionally altered in-person; his wardrobe and good mood quickly restored; doubled.

“What are you doing with a bulldagger like that, Z-Man?” one of the more gauche crewmen asks as his oldest friend adjusts his collar and pecks his cheek (all while making eyes at the girl singer from Queens).

“Living in sin, gentlemen,” he replies.

Roxie is solid and beautiful, inside and out. Unapologetically herself and always shielded. If he leans in close, perhaps some of it will rub off.

Synergy rules — in a rock n’ roll girl group world, fashion is king alongside the Wall of Sound. With interest in the radical vintage extended to both the fashion-forward vocalists and the producers that want a piece, they both find themselves in quick ascension as the new decade emerges and the new gender-neutral leather-and-lace flourishes.

A third of the way up the mountain, Roxanne has a radical idea.

It’s a test of sorts — to make sure that the papers they got for Ronnie are good (new name, an “F” swapped for an “M” in a crucial spot). There are practical reasons as well: a “divorced” will look less suspect on both of their resumes than “single.” And, as a bonus, now they each have a second form of ID.

“We can get library cards once when we hit L.A.”

The Bowery wedding (two witnesses, no rings, no waiting) is quickly followed by a Reno divorce. The desert air preps them for their California debut, as does the homebrew and the peyote their house mother generously shares with them while they wait for the ink to dry.

“Stay with me,” Ronnie whispers in the dark, pleads. If he’s left alone out there in the desert heat, his outer visage will melt away like snow.  
  
“I’m your huckleberry, _Z-Man_ ,” she smiles, teasingly. “Just try and get rid of me.”


	3. Give me the right to make you mine. (1967)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're both too romantic and Roxanne knows it.

The impact of East coast pop and the British Invasion crash landing in California is large enough and loud enough to ruin surf rock’s party. At least until the few skilled revenants find a way to adapt.

Ronnie and Roxanne adapt just fine. Though their similar dark hair and broad smiles tend to confuse people.

“Roxanne? What _is_ your last name?” Honey asks, giggling and still smelling like pool water.

“It’s Barzell.” No ring to keep. She’d kept the name instead.  
  
“... are you sisters?” She asks, big Bambi eyes full of sincerity, so high Roxanne can’t help but laugh.

“We used to be!” she replies, helping the slipping strap on her new friend’s bathing suit.

“We still are,” Ronnie replies, passing the drummer an ice cream. And a cocktail. The dish of choice for radiant stars and lovely flowers in transition.  
  
\--

Only Roxanne can veto Ronnie and only Ronnie can veto Roxanne. Though they both have a 50:50 shot of making that same mistake twice before each of them comes crawling back to the other, tail between their legs.

‘That boy was nothing like Federico García Lorca.’

‘And that girl looked looked nothing less than the charmless offspring of Mary Pickford and James Whale’s Frankenstein. Only worse.’ 

They’re both too romantic and Roxanne knows it. California isn’t exactly the Bowery but nor is it Paris in the Twenties. Martin and Lewis have been divorced for more than a decade and their mothers still swoon over Johnnie Ray and Liberace. She may not have gotten very far at Finch, but she paid attention just long enough in history class to know the age of man wasn’t quite that cyclical. They were both going to need all the protection they could get from zealous cops and jealous husbands. 

It’s a pact, a vow much like that first one. Ronnie calls it his “lover’s privilege” to shock the more persistent girls into flight. Roxanne doesn’t have a name for when she does it. Probably because, even after five years in L.A., Ronnie’s had to use it far more than she has.

It’s part of how she manages to shock herself when she corners him about the guest list for the next show. After Susan Lake’s appearance with her young niece in tow, that first show kickstarting the West Coast debut of the femme pop trio Ronnie re-christened as The Carrie Nations. Prohibition Chicagoland meets east coast subversion under the warm California sun.

It’s a magical, mystical combination and even Roxanne can’t help being taken in.

But if they’re both going to be wading in, hand-in-hand or otherwise, she’s going to need to clear the waters of anyone with designs on seeing them drown.

“These two. Aryan features, Russian fingers? Kick ‘em loose.”

Ronnie looks almost shocked; shocked, haughty, and a little bit pained just under the surface. 

“Pray tell? Give me one good reason.”

“I’ll give you two: her…” she points to Kelly’s name near the top of the list. Official management role or no, Kelly is still Ronnie’s artist. Protecting her personal and professional relationships from Ashley’s sledgehammer is going to save them all a lot of trouble in the future.

“…and you,” she finishes, her finger landing on Ronnie’s chin, before stealing up into dark locks. “He’s a churlish peasant. And you can do better.”

There’s a glint of a fond exasperation in grey-blue eyes as he strikes his pen through both Ashley and Lance’s names.

“The goddess reigns supreme,” He sighs, almost wistful.

“Look on the bright side, sweetheart. You’ll have that much extra time to spend with your lead girl’s ‘manager.’”


	4. She got the way to move me, get up and move me. (1968)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronnie's not sure if he wants to veto Casey. This is going to take expert, objective consultation.

Getting undressed, for Ronnie, is a medical procedure. From the age of five onward, he always has to take a pill beforehand. To drone out equal parts’ medical commentary and pedestrian prabble.

Dressing for the goddess is the exception — as Roxanne has been the exception in all things for most of his life. His “almost elder sister!” supplanted The Great Rachel early on, helping him try on clothes and school uniforms in countless waiting rooms in countless Suffolk County department stores. She continues to facilitate his entire wardrobe: shirts, waistcoats, trousers; taking his measurements weekly to watch for any physical changes. After a decade in each other’s pockets, her acumen regarding his physical form could match any doctor’s (with half the bedside manner).

“You’ve lost a few inches here,” she smiles, patting his hips

“And I seem to have gained them up here,” he replies, fingers gesturing towards his bound breasts. An unfamiliar scent wafts under his nose as she leans in. “Do I detect a hint of Jean Nate, Max Factor foundation and… sandalwood incense?”

“You don’t miss a trick. Casey was in her earlier. I took her measurements for a new dress.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Nothing else right now.”

He never faces the mirror when Roxanne measures him, never meets her eyes. But the glimpse he catches of her Mona Lisa smile in the reflection of a darkened window is enough.  
  
\--

Ronnie doesn’t know if he wants to veto Casey. He’s never been overly zealous with his lover’s privilege (whatever Roxanne might think) but he’s wary of anyone he can’t immediately get a read on.

Of the three women from Calumet City, she is the least amiable to his person and his praise. The least receptive to any sort of affection it seems, save from her bandmates and Young Harris. She’s the last to arrive at every interview and promotion for the Carrie Nations and she leaves every party early. It doesn’t seem to matter who the host is, so he carefully swallows any budding resentment. And yet, she’s never been late for a live engagement, showing no nerves or hesitation. On stage, bass in hand, mid-song, she lights up a room. Off-stage, there’s a sorrow in her gaze that mystifies...

He too is intrigued. Roxanne was right (as usual). This caravan of free spirits from the dingier waters of the Heartland was well worth exchanging a sullen rent boy and a black widow spider.

Alas, cracking the mystery of Miss Anderson will involve expert, objective consultation.

The font of information, while attractive, is immediately distressing. Kelly is his playmate; the closest thing Ronnie’s had to a best girlfriend since he and Roxanne were small. Together, they can revel in the ecstasy and absurdity of their surroundings. But talking to her about anything real and substantial seems futile.

Petronella lingers closer to the earth, always centered and real if a bit lonely (before she takes up with Emerson, the law student with the charming smile). The young drummer takes pride in Not Checking Out apart from the occasional, discrete smoke in the back of a tour bus. Her domestic affairs are also the most stable which raises unfortunate blind spots. If anything is queerly amiss, it has managed to slip under her radar.

That leaves Ronnie with one remaining option.

“She’s shy, Barzell,” Harris tells him, visibly annoyed. “It’s not like it’s a crime.”

“Nor am I her accuser. I don’t seek to condemn, only to understand.”

“Casey’s... not exactly square with her family. Okay? Nothing to do with the band or his job.”

The senator’s daughter. And his namesake, no less. Of course. The sensation of a thousand veils being lifted is almost heady.

“Many hundreds of lost souls have found their way out here. Orphans, runaways,” he says. He stops short of the word ‘freaks.’ He’s heard it too often himself. He’s sure Miss Anderson has as well. “Surely she knows this is friendly territory?”

“Friendly or not, she has a hard time trusting it. And she’s not the only one.”

Ronnie eyes Harris’ tight shoulders, the sharp angles he had folded themselves into on the settee. Family, meant to provide succor and support, often supplied the child’s first betrayals.

“I see now. Trust takes time and considerate action.”

“And what does that mean?”

“I don’t know if you noticed tonight, given the swell of the crowd here... but a few key players were stricken from the call sheet.”

Harris scans the room, including the familiar spot on the sofa, where Ronnie currently sits. It takes a moment for his words to sink in; surprise (and relief) palpable when they do.

“The goddess reigns. I’ve known Roxanne all my life. She divorced me six weeks after we were married, which should give you an idea about her judge of character. Miss Anderson can trust her. So can you.”  
  
Something in big brown eyes tells him message received.  
  
“Okay. I‘ll go with it for now,” he nods, relaxed as he retrieves his drink from the coffee table. “You know how I can tell you’re serious?”

“I’m rarely anything but serious. How?”

“That’s the fewest syllables I’ve heard you use in one sentence.”

The smirk is warm and so Ronnie lets this small _impertinence_ pass... a little lighter now that he has his answer. The vetting process is at an end (though he’s long since forgotten who is vetting for whom).  
  



	5. Help me hold on to this dream. (1968)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roxanne can't resist being pursued and Ronnie can't resist tempting fate.

Roxanne is vetting Harris but not from the start. 

His connection to Kelly falters too easily, salt-burned and faded in the California sun. And it takes her just a little too long to realize it’s the lead singer’s fault and not their manager’s. Swaying her attentions from party boys with busy mouths and open purses is one thing but keeping her away from the rest of what Los Angeles nightlife has to offer is beyond even Ronnie’s scope. Hip to the new strange and eager to wander.

“She didn’t mean to hurt him,” Casey says, distracted briefly as Roxane adjusts the sleeves on her gown. The Grammys aren’t going to know what hit them by the time Roxanne Barzell is finished with the Carrie Nations.

“I’m sure she didn’t. It’s just another byproduct of Los Angeles. And being 22. People grow up and grow apart, figure out who they are and what they want. For some people it takes a little longer…”

The hand that appears on her wrist is warm, soft, shifting Roxanne’s gaze upward to the bassist on her pedestal.

“You and Z-Man stayed together. Even after your divorce.”

“Well, ‘together’ is a multifaceted word,” she says. “We have a whole mutual admiration society going on. Have since we were kids. When one of us needed to run, the other one was there. And vice versa.”

“I’d be there,” Casey replies. “If you needed to run.”

Her breath catches in her throat. Unnerving, the pursuer being pursued. She can’t bring herself to mind.

“At the risk of sounding… impetuous,” she hesitates. “Would Harris be there for… someone apart from Kelly?”

“Matchmaking?” she asks wryly, more amused than Roxanne’s seen her without a joint or a drink in her hand. Sobriety and sunlight. It's quite becoming.

“Just exploring possibilities. Ronnie’s been very open lately. The suggestion probably wouldn’t go amiss.”

That gets a laugh, and the hand at her wrist moves up to her shoulder.

“I haven’t known him as long as you’ve known Z-Man,” she says. “I’ve never heard him say one way or the other. But I haven’t heard him say ‘no’ to much.”

\--

Her decision is sealed after the next party. The party after the break-up with Kelly, when Lance shows up despite his invitation being withdrawn indefinitely.

The fight is _his_ fault, no question, but goading Harris into the first punch alerts Randy, the heavyweight champ (and champion instigator). The boxer is soon followed by Casey, then, finally Ronnie, watching with interest from the sidelines.  
  
50:50 chance. _Goddamn it._

It’s premeditated, designed to put Harris in a bad spot – and he’s in one for the first few blows. The stakes of the fight abruptly shift when Casey moves to intervene and takes an elbow to the face. Whether it’s Randy’s or Lance’s, whether it was an accident or not, Roxanne can’t tell – she’s seeing red. Casey falling to the carpet brings Pet into the fray, jumping on Randy’s back and trapping his neck in half nelson, then an armbar as the champ hits the carpet. Roxanne charges into the mix right behind, hurling her drink into Lance’s face with the rest of the glass right behind it.  
  
Finishing school has never been a more appropriate term for the kind of education she got. By the time the former pretty boy sails through the window into the prickly hedge out front, he is quite beyond _finished_.

“Roxanne?”

She nearly misses the soft inquiry over heaving breaths. She turns slowly to meet half a dozen shocked gazes. Casey’s are bleary and Ronnie’s are stunned. She realizes who said it immediately, and it’s him that she directs her next words to.

“ _Party’s. Over.”_

“Yes,” he echoes. Tail between his legs.

\--  
  
Of course, the party’s not quite “over,” as such. Merely converted to a private triage unit. Harris has the beginnings of a black eye and his lip is split. Casey’s broken nose oozes blood sluggishly until Kelly resets it, provoking a fierce wail that echoes in the gothic chamber of Ronnie’s bedroom. Roxanne kneels on the floor, mopping her face with a damp cloth. Their gracious host takes the taller man’s hand, leading him to the bathroom off the master suite.

“Should you be doing it that way?” he asks, tilting his head back skeptically.

“Trust me, Young Harris,” he replies, dabbing the surrounding area with iodine. “I got my first aid badge three times.”

“Four times, Ronnie,” she corrects.

“Ah yes. I forgot that year in Daisies. Thank you, goddess!”

“Daisies _and_ clover,” she replies with a smirk.

“I always had the best cookie sales in the troop. The sweet men of New Holland Drive never knew what hit them.”

Roxanne holds off from talking about how she still looked better in the blue sash and pleated skirt. Casey’s nose is no longer bleeding, but she can’t help fussing and leaning in to take a closer look, a grateful (still warm) hand draped on her hip.

“Man, I don’t dig you two at all!” Pet laughs, adjusting the ice pack on her bruised fingers. The gears visibly turn in Ronnie’s expressions as he susses out the context: ‘dig’ in the sense of “perceive” rather than “like.”

“Few do, my sweet pet. The goddess and I have our own little language. Like twins.”  
  
Ronnie sews up Harris’ lip with delicate fingers and minimal stitches.

“I don’t really want to go home right now,” Casey says, more wary than woozy. It sends a sharp twinge through Roxanne’s chest.  
  
“You could come to my studio?” she offers.  
  
“Is there room enough for all of us?”

Roxanne glances back at the rogue’s gallery of bruised and bleeding musicians crowded together on the sofa. All but her dearest companion, who lingers close to Harris, perched on the arm of the sofa.  
  
“Not really. Ronnie, my dear? Slumber party?”

Her oldest friend’s face lights up.  
  
“We can have brunch in the morning! Otto! Make up the playroom!”  
  
\--  
  
To the surprise of the guests, the playroom is a screening room, outfitted with cots instead of chairs. Pajamas and favorite blankets only. Silk sleep masks for those who can’t bear light. Black and white movies for those who can.   
  
Harris and Casey are awake just long enough to get comfortable with Kelly and Pet each hovering nearby, in and out of sleep. Roxanne sits up braced against the cot frame with her head on Ronnie’s shoulder as they sit, transfixed by _The Private Lives of Elizabeth & Essex._

“It’s like a basket of kittens back there,” Ronnie observes.  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“Vagabonds and roses plucked from the center of this novice nation and repatriated here. It’s amazing they’re not still covered with dust from the road.”  
  
“Not just amazing – magical,” Roxanne replies. It had taken them long enough to shake it off, from the suburbs to the bowery, from the bowery to the desert. “I like them a lot. All of them. Not just Casey.”

“I find myself… quite attached as well.”

“I know. Let’s try to keep it together, huh? For as long as we can?”

There’s a melancholy in Ronnie’s eyes as he watches the screen.  
  
“Sometimes I dream of a massacre.”  
  
“Well, that’s a trip. Am I in those dreams?”  
  
“You have a starring role, goddess. Quite explosive.” There’s a mourning in the crisp edges of his voice, so many daggers turned inward.  
  
She understands, of course. And rather than running, she draws him closer. 

“You were my first love. And I’ve got news for you: you’re the great love. We only made it because I loved you and you loved me. No one else is going to do that.”  
  
“Perhaps not.”

“I don’t care how many ghosts are hanging out in your closet whispering murderous plots, Ronnie. You’re not Hamlet.”

That gets a genuine laugh from him, edged with tears.

“That’s probably for the best,” Ronnie sniffs. “You would make a terrible Ophelia.”

“Okay, so new pact: I won’t wade into any rivers if you don’t go hiring any theater groups to act out your father’s murder.”

“Your father was _murdered_?” Kelly wonders aloud sleepily.

Roxanne laughs.

“Only by society, Mary Shelley. Fill your ears with silver and go back to sleep.”

“Yes, Count Dracula.”

“Yes, _Mooooom_ ,” Petronella echoes, making Roxanne laugh even harder.

“Well. I think I know what our second feature of the evening will be. Otto! _A Midsummer Night’s Dream!_ This instant!”


End file.
